In 1992, April 3rd was supposed to happen on April 5th. But April 5th was too far away and so a decision was made by people who get paid a great deal of money to know such things, that the 5th was going to have to be moved forward two days.
No, I have not been experimenting with mushroom varieties. I am telling you how Cody came to be. Cody is my third child and the third son in our family. Today is his 20th birthday. I think you should meet him. He’s pretty wonderful. (If you are so not into my personal family stuff, then get off at this station and wait for the next train. No hard feelings. I’ll see you on some other trip).
The progression of children in a family’s history is an interesting study in group dynamics. People often comment on how different children from the same family may be, but we rarely comment on the flip side of that coin. We parents are vastly different from the arrival of the first child to the senior year of the “baby.” The first child puts you through the fire of untried parenting. OK, so you can reproduce. Now what? The second child makes you feel like a real family. Now the first child has an ally and playmate. The third child is the glue that fills in all the holes and edges.
Cody rounded out our passel of boys and gave everyone someone to coo over, laugh at every silly smile and deed, and just plain be the adored center of attention. A family of five is pushing the societal expectations of minimally sized families. Six turned us into our own reality show.
There was something wonderful and miraculous about watching my sons get to know one another and understanding that they were becoming a cohesive unit that would endure for a lifetime. Even on the days they fought the hardest and were the most annoyed/angry/hurt, I knew in this mother’s heart of mine, that they were also surpassing the bounds of blood ties and becoming forever friends.
A house full of boys meant everything turned into a competition, and I mean EVERYTHING. It also meant sports were a mainstay of every waking thought, wrestling solved everything, and bodily function was the funniest thing on the face of the earth. If you want clean, dainty gentility, boys will try your patience. But boys are also FUN. I love having sons. I feel so fortunate and blessed. Even the Sunday at church when they got mad and started wrestling on the floor of the foyer (yes, really...).
Cody quickly became the family comedian. The first two were plenty funny as well, but Cody had a gift for entertaining. I vividly remember sitting at the supper table when he was four. He asked for more spaghetti, but he did it with a dead-on Italian accent. I just stared at him. Who does impressions as a preschooler? We laughed because we were surprised, but also because he was FUNNY. After that, there was no looking back for him. He gunned for the laugh every time. He can imitate just about any accent he hears. We joke that he’ll end up doing tech support from India. He's already got the accent.
He also has an uncanny ability to memorize. I used to watch him watch television. It was like he was sleeping with his eyes open. He would stare wide-eyed at the screen, but was motionless. No laughter, no commentary, no reaction at all. It was a little creepy, to be honest. I couldn’t figure this phenomenon out. Years later it was explained. One of his siblings asked him once why he was not laughing at a very funny part of a movie. His short answer was, “I’m recording.” And he was. He can watch a movie once, and recite scenes nearly word for word afterward. It is incredible.
He had an inordinate amount of energy as a child. I took him in to our pediatrician for his first check-up and laid him on the examination table. The nurse just stared in fascination. My two-week-old infant had lifted both his head and his legs clear off the table and had formed a perfect “U.” Even at such a young age he had an amazing level of energy (and abdominal muscles).
He also possessed very little physical fear. The more daring the stunt, the more dangerous my warnings, the more he wanted to try whatever it was that he was determined to do.
We were invited to swim in a neighbor’s pool. Cody was about six. I looked away for just a moment (I probably blinked or something), and when I looked back he was lying on the bottom of the pool, completely still. I jumped in and plucked him from the bottom, set him on the side of the pool, sputtering and coughing and water pouring from every orifice. When he could catch his breath, he began to laugh and shouted joyfully, “That was fun!” I nearly threw him back in…
One summer we were painting the siding of our two-story house. I happened to look out the window one afternoon and saw Cody trying to drag the scaffolding across the yard. I opened the window and asked him what in the world he was doing. His reply? He wanted to get it close enough to the trampoline to jump off of.
The year he turned six all of that changed.
His natural exuberance and endless activity came to an abrupt halt the summer after kindergarten. I was watching him swing by his arms between a kitchen countertop and the island one day in June. He was wearing shorts and I noticed that his left knee was horribly swollen. I called the doctor immediately. The doctor’s best advice was that if it didn’t go away or if I noticed it again, bring him in immediately. A few days later I was standing in the hall outside his bedroom door when he got up in the morning. I realized he was limping. His knee was double its normal size, squishy, and hot to the touch. The doctor did not hesitate. He wanted to see him as soon as I could get there.
The doctor minced no words. “I am looking for one of three things. I am looking for lime disease, cancer, or rheumatoid arthritis.” I sat stunned. I had pictured this moment completely different. I thought he had bumped his knee or twisted something, or something equally minor. I did not like any of the options laid out before me. No, these would not do at all.
A battery of tests were performed and then we waited. The doctor called the next day. “I am about to use a term you are going to get very familiar with and will learn much about.” I held my breath without being aware I was doing so. “Cody has Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. It is an autoimmune disease and this particular strain attacks his large joints – such as the knees.”
My mind was racing at Daytona speeds to try to absorb and process this information. I was tracking with him enough to understand that he did NOT have cancer. I was nearly weak with relief. But this other thing. The arthritis thing… what does it really MEAN? I tried to ask that very question, badly I am sure. The good doctor’s patient reply was that nobody could know what it really meant for Cody. Every victim is different and will travel a path unique to that person.
I hung up the phone and felt shock and grief wash over me. The sort that any mother whose child has been diagnosed with a chronic, debilitating illness experiences. The next weeks were a blur of follow-up doctor visits, nightmarish and painful treatments, and research into just what exactly this all meant for Cody and for our family. Chronic illness engulfs every family member. Your life as you knew it suddenly tilts at a bizarre angle, sweeping all members into its yawning chasm.
It got worse.
Within six months, the disease had overtaken his young body. He had inflammation in both knees, his ankles, his elbows, his shoulders, and his jaw. He was in constant pain and nearly immobile. Mornings were the worst. I would arise early on school days in order to carry my first grader into the bathroom and a waiting hot tub of soothing water. Then I would help him dress and we would do twenty minutes of physical therapy just to get his joints loosened up enough to move.
His days of riding the school bus came to a screeching halt the day he came home and told me that he had had difficulty getting off the steep step of the bus and had fallen into a snow bank where he lay until someone saw him and helped him into the building.
I nodded in silence as I listened to him recount his morning. Not trusting myself to speak, I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and bawled my eyes out. It hit me with ferocity. I had a physically disabled child.
We soon had a handicap sign hanging from the rear view mirror of the van and I asked his rheumatologist to help me find a wheel chair. I had ceased to shop at the mall because I always ended up taking little Hannah out of her stroller and carrying her while Cody rode. He just could not walk long distances and was too big for me to carry.
It was a dark season for Cody and this mother.
Only those who have been forced to watch a child suffer understand this brand of pain. We use the word so casually at times. But suffering that involves a child is the worst form of punishment. There were days I could not bear it. He was so small and so incapable of understanding why he hurt all the time. Rheumatoid Arthritis is more insidious than just joint pain and swelling. It affects many systems of the body, causing fatigue and a host of other symptoms. My active, bouncing-off-every-wall son now lay listless on the sofa even on beautiful days. He had no energy and could barely move.
I would love to tell you that he outgrew JRA, as many children do. He did not and will not, or he would have by now. He takes a low-dose chemotherapy drug weekly to keep his symptoms at bay. The side effects can be harsh, but it allows him to live a “normal” life. This will be his reality for the rest of his life. Joint replacement will be his next step as the disease takes its toll.
But disease does not define Cody. He rarely gives it a thought. When he calls home from college and I ask about it, his answers are almost non-existent. It is an annoyance to him; nothing more. He refuses to play the sympathy card. I doubt his friends even know he has it. He is brave and he is my hero.
He is now a college sophomore, attending school on a staggeringly large academic scholarship. He is studying computer science and has found his niche, I believe. He is polite and respectful. He is fun. He is a huge credit to his parents, who can take zero credit for all the above gloatings.
I love Cody for many reasons. All the usual reasons a mother loves any of her children. But there is something truly unique about my third-born. He is fun and funny and smart as a whip. He is all those things and more. But I think the reason he so intrigues me is that he is a vast, untapped potential. Cody has greatness written all over him. Those in his orbit see it and wonder silently when and where he will find it. He WILL find it. Of this I am sure.
On this, your twentieth birthday, my beloved son, I stand silently as the edge of your universe and watch with awe as you find your way in this world and you thrill in the joy of spreading your young adult wings. You love the wind in your face and the earth far below. I can see that plainly. I rejoice with you. I will not try to hold you close to earth or me. For I know, as my mother did before me, that you will return to earth and to me when the time is right. You will find that safe harbor that is home, just as your older siblings have. Until then, this is your time. Embrace it! You will never again have this sort of freedom from responsibility. Live life to the fullest and fill your life with golden memories and forever friendships.
Happy birthday, Cody. I could not love you more.
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